


Oblivious

by arrow (esteefee)



Category: due South
Genre: Angst, April Showers Challenge, Courtship, Crack, Episode Related, First Time, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-04
Updated: 2008-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:20:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/arrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a brick, and then there's Fraser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oblivious

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vsee](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=vsee).



> I have no idea if they have decorum instructors at Depot, but doesn't it seem like they should? Also, in canon Fraser drinks coffee. So, I let him.

__Effort the First: Offering an Ear  
  
They are closing in.

The perpetrator, one Calvin Klein, has resorted to hurling his illegally imported merchandise from the back of his parked truck in a vain attempt to keep them at bay.

Fraser evades, in sequence, a pair of clown shoes, an oversized " **I Chicago!** " mug, and a trio of baby dolls that cry "Do you love me?" in almost hysterical tones as they fly toward him.

The third doll clips Fraser in the ear just as he approaches the bumper with Ray by his side. They both jump up into the truck and Ray grabs Klein's arm while Fraser reaches to relieve him of his latest chosen weapon, which is, apparently—Fraser recoils reflexively—a handful of tiger striped undergarments.

Ray, his manner truculent, Mirandizes Mr. Klein. "Do you understand these rights as I've explained them to you, or do I have to kick you in the head?"

"Yeah, yeah." Mr. Klein is breathing heavily, and his toupee is terribly askew on his sweaty brow.

Ray flashes a crooked smile at Fraser and follows his glance to the floor of the truck, where the unmentionables are piled blamelessly at his feet.

"Say, those are pretty sexy. Pick 'em up, Fraser. They're evidence."

"Ah," Fraser scratches his eyebrow, "there seems to be a preponderance of _other_ evidence to choose from, don't you think?" He decides to ignore the slight squeak that breaks his voice in the middle of the sentence.

Ray snaps his chewing gum. "Nuh-uh," he says, his grin undiminished. In fact, it appears to be widening. "Come on, pitter-patter, partner."

Fraser sighs and bends to pick up a single pair of the panties, holding it delicately between thumb and forefinger.

Ray laughs as he pushes Klein toward the step, and Fraser follows. A couple of squad cars soon respond to Ray's call, and Fraser importunes a uniformed officer for an evidence bag, in which he hastily seals the offending garment.

However, Ray forces Fraser to carry it in his lap all the way back to the station, where they book Mr. Klein and settle down to write the report.

"Hey," Ray says when Fraser sits at the computer. "You got cut or something. There's some blood..." He gestures toward Fraser's ear.

Fraser touches the area gingerly. It does indeed feel sore, although he hadn't realized it in all the excitement.

"Yes, I'm afraid I was wounded by a flying Chatty Cathy doll."

"Bummer."

"Perhaps if you—" Fraser clears his throat and, seeing an opportunity for some unwonted intimacy, suddenly dares, "—if it wouldn't trouble you too much, you might assist me in applying some salve?"

"Sure thing." Ray gestures toward the computer. "Let's get this finished up and I'll help you put some moose gunk on it."

"I'd appreciate it, Ray," Fraser says sincerely. "As you might recall, it's difficult to work on one's own ear." He rests his hands over the keyboard, preparing to type.

"Oh, I remember. In fact, I think I might have a couple of ear anecdotes for ya." Ray grins at him and then reaches into the evidence bag. "So, item numero uno: tiger striped panties."

Fraser looks hastily away and begins typing.

"And, lookee here—they're crotchless."

"They're—what?" Fraser turns his head involuntarily. Ray is holding up the underwear and, indeed, they have a giant hole where the crotch should be. "But why—wouldn't that—I mean, such a hole would seem to obviate the entire purpose—"

"Oh, no, my friend. Not at all." Ray sticks his fingers through the hole and wiggles them.

Fraser feels his face heat, his injured ear throbbing with the increased blood flow. "Great Scott," he mutters and tries ineffectually to continue typing.

Ray just chuckles and pulls out his notebook. "Next up—one case of French ticklers, actually from Germany, with no import stamp."

Fraser bows his head and keeps typing. A mere forty-two minutes and uncounted blushes later he prints up the report and hands it to Ray for signing.

"Let's see about that ear," Ray says, and drops the report in Welsh's office before following Fraser to the men's room.

Once inside, Fraser opens his pouch and removes the small jar of unguent, which he offers to Ray. Feeling greatly daring, Fraser tilts his head, exposing his ear and throat. The gesture feels patently submissive—especially when Ray moves closer and his warm breath glances against the slightly damp skin of Fraser's neck. He has to suppress a shiver.

Then Ray touches his ear—his highly sensitive ear—and Fraser is forced to bite his lip.

"Hmm. Hang on a sec," Ray says, and steps over to the sink. He returns with a crumpled, wet towel and touches it to the top of Fraser's ear.

Beads of water trickle down behind and along Fraser's throat. This time his shiver is full-force. He closes his eyes, certain his bald-faced actions—the exposure of this throat, his excited shivering—will at last make obvious his attraction toward Ray.

But Ray says nothing. His fingers are deft and almost clinical as they smear the salve on.

"Yuck," Ray says. "That is some kind of nasty stink."

Ah, of course—the smell has distracted Ray from Fraser's behavior. Fraser isn't certain whether he is relieved or disappointed. Perhaps some of both. After all this time girding his loins, so to speak, to have his effort go unnoticed...

Well, he will simply have to steel his resolve and try again. He is, after all, a Mountie, and thus persistent to the extreme.

  
 __Effort the Second: Baring (Almost) All  
  
Fraser's next opportunity comes as quickly as that evening. They go to Ray's apartment after eating dinner, purportedly to watch a baseball game.

"It's rather warm, Ray. Do you mind if I remove my tunic?" Fraser asks with sly diffidence.

"Knock yourself out." Ray goes into the kitchen.

Unbuckling his belt and strap, Fraser boldly removes his brown uniform tunic to hang it in the closet. He stands for a moment, undecided, and then goes even further, loosening his tie and unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. Finally, as a _coup de grace_ , he rolls his sleeves up to the crease of his elbows.

Usually, he doesn't undress to this degree unless within his own quarters, but desperate times call for desperate measures, even if his transparent efforts are making Diefenbaker snuffle with amusement.

"If you please," Fraser hisses at him before sitting on the couch.

"Did you say something?" Ray has returned with a beer and a glass of water. Fraser shakes his head and takes the water without lifting his eyes to see Ray's reaction to his state of undress. This turns out to be a mistake, because when Ray settles on the couch next to him, his expression betrays nothing of the startlement Fraser is certain must have been there moments before.

Ray lifts the clicker and turns on the game. His blue eyes are avid behind his heavy glasses, and Fraser has to force himself to look away or risk becoming entranced.

The announcer calls the teams to the field, and the World Series is underway—though the term "World" is hardly accurate, Fraser thinks with some disgruntlement. He shifts uncomfortably as the game begins. Ray is rooting for the Indians. Another inappropriate term—or offensive, at the very least.

Fraser determinedly removes his tie completely and unbuttons another button. His suprasternal notch is now utterly exposed to view.

Ray sips his beer.

When the first two innings pass without him making any reference to Fraser's unusual state of undress or even, seemingly, looking in Fraser's direction, Fraser must conclude his second effort a stupendous failure. Ray is obviously too involved in the game.

"Sure you don't want a beer?" Ray asks, barely glancing over. Fraser shakes his head.

Honestly—is the man completely blind?

  
 __Effort the Third: Wine and Roses (Or Rather, Pie and Bratwurst)  
  
The next week is a busy one at the Consulate, where Fraser has his hands full thanks to a cadre of visiting mathematicians. They are decidedly rude and unruly, and on Tuesday there is a kerfuffle when two gentlemen who are both working on the Birch and Swinnerton-Dyer conjecture break into fisticuffs over some arcane premise.

Fraser receives a smart pop to the nose when he tries to intervene. At five o'clock he retreats to his office with an ice pack he plans to apply to his face.

The phone rings.

 _"Hey, partner,"_ Ray starts in without waiting for a greeting, _"Are you coming around any time soon? I have paperwork up the wazoo and the Borel brothers are back in town. I just know we can nab them this time."_

 __"I'm sorry, Ray, I can't." Fraser's voice is a little nasal from his swollen passages.

 _"What's wrong?"_ Ray says instantly.

"I assure you I'm quite fine—"

 _"Shut up, Fraser. I'll be right over."_ Click.

Well, this is a rather embarrassing turn. Ray will show up only to find Fraser allowed himself to be punched in the nose by a seventy year-old, one hundred and ten pound mathematics professor. Still, it is gratifying that Ray should be so concerned for him. Really, he is a tremendous friend—stalwart, worthy of trust, self-sacrificing. Unbearably good-looking—

Perhaps this is another opportunity in disguise. Yes, Fraser can just see it. He stands up to change into his civilian clothes.

When Ray arrives, he takes one look at Fraser's face and his eyebrows glower down.

"Who did this? I'll cream 'em."

"That won't be necessary, Ray," Fraser says, then coughs to clear his throat. "I assure you the malfeasant has been duly chastised." _And sent to his room with a hot toddy and his molded plastic replica of the Fields Medal._

"If you say so." Ray looks doubtful.

"Since you're already here, though, would you like to—that is, may I take you to dinner?"

"That's great! Yeah, because I—you haven't been around much, you know? I got to miss—well, that just sucks, is what I'm saying." Ray rubs the back of his neck.

Fraser's heart gives a startled bump. "Yes. Yes." He's incapable of saying more on the subject, so he continues his practiced invitation. "It will be my treat. I just discovered a new diner on Chestnut Street where they are said to have extraordinary pies. I know how you like a good pie."

"Sounds good. Pie sounds terrific." Ray grins, and Fraser smiles back a little helplessly.

Just then, Diefenbaker suspiciously appears at Fraser's right leg with his tail wagging.

"Looks like it sounds good to Dief, too."

"Yes, isn't that odd." Fraser frowns down at his deaf wolf, who lifts a rear paw to scratch insultingly at his ear. "However, Diefenbaker is not invited. Only you," Fraser says firmly, trying to control the slight breathlessness he feels.

"Aww, poor fur-face. Hey, we'll bring you some back, Dief. Cherry okay?"

Dief shakes out a snort.

"Apple? Yeah, you like apple."

With a short woof of agreement, Dief playfully butts against Ray's leg. Although Fraser is a little disgusted by Dief's greedy display, he can't deny the warmth he feels in seeing Ray take such care with his wolf's feelings.

Fraser goes into his office and retrieves his leather jacket, and they leave on their date. He is careful to open the door of the diner and usher Ray in, and offers him his choice of seats at the booth. Ray gives him an odd look and selects the side that faces the door.

The food is excellent German-American fare. Fraser orders the bratwurst, sauerkraut and potatoes. He is tempted, but finds himself constitutionally incapable of forking his sausage and nibbling on the end as he had planned.

Instead, he has to make do with slouching deep in his seat so he can nudge Ray's shoe with the toe of his hiking boot.

Ray shifts his foot, and his heel lands on Fraser's toes, making him jump.

"Oh, sorry, Frase—was that you?" Ray asks.

Fraser just sighs and picks up the check.

  


__Efforts the Fourth and Fifth: Extreme Measures Seem Indicated  
  
Two days later the mathematicians are sent packing. Fraser is grateful to see the back of them. The sheer volume of schnapps they consumed has depleted the Consulate's yearly rations.

Now that he has a little time to himself, he plans to come up with an unbeatable strategy, one that will break through the obtuse wall that seems to be blocking Ray's perception. After all, _obvious_ is very close to _oblivious_ , really. The only difference is a couple of infernal letters.

This evening is the perfect opportunity to turn it around. It being the final night of the Series, Ray has demanded his attendance, saying Fraser has an obligation to observe the American baseball ritual to its fullest.

Under orders, Fraser goes out to purchase salsa, tortilla chips, and a six-pack of Canadian beer, which seems decidedly un-American, but Ray is adamant that this is the custom.

Before Fraser leaves for Ray's apartment, he very deliberately puts on his newest flannel shirt, his whitest undershirt, a pair of clean, pressed blue jeans, and a very slight touch of aftershave, which he doesn't routinely use.

He is ready.

He and Diefenbaker arrive at Ray's door punctually ten minutes before game time. Ray swings open the door, waves Dief in, and then takes the six-pack from Fraser's hand.

"You ready for _the_ primo sporting event, Fraser? Believe me, this game has housework-on-ice beat like you wouldn't believe."

Fraser tenses himself to automatically rebut the contention, but then forces himself to reply evenly, "If you like to think so."

"Oh, I do. I do, buddy true." With that odd remark, Ray takes the six-pack to the kitchen, leaving Fraser to wonder if his careful attire has gone completely unnoticed. But Ray reappears a moment later to comment, "Say, is that new?"

Fraser smiles. "It is, indeed, Ray. I find this shade of blue _particularly_ appealing," he says pointedly. It can hardly be missed that his shirt exactly matches Ray's eyes—that point on the curve between blue and green which contrasts so stunningly with his golden eyelashes.

Ray's eyes flick up to his face, and then back down to his shirt. "Yeah, it's nice." He shakes his shoulders and bounces a little. "C'mon, it's almost game time. You have the chips in there?" He reaches for the brown bag in Fraser's hand and tugs it away.

Fraser grits his teeth and follows Ray to the counter, where he has opened the bag and is now pouring the chips into a large bowl. He grabs it and the container of salsa and nudges Fraser toward the couch.

"Let's get at 'er, Frase. We're missing the pre-show." He puts the salsa on the coffee table and drops down onto the couch. A moment later the voices of the announcers fill the room.

The clothing gambit has obviously failed, but Fraser isn't finished yet. He has one last extreme measure to employ that will certainly open Ray's eyes fully.

Fraser waits nervously until the seventh inning stretch. When the television cuts to a commercial, he casually reaches into the bowl of chips on Ray's lap and fumbles one between Ray's legs.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Ray," he says speciously and digs for the chip, deliberately grazing Ray's inner thigh with the backs of his knuckles.

"Hey!"

"Yes, Ray?" Fraser says breathlessly.

"Don't get grease on these jeans. I just washed 'em."

Fraser abandons the chip in the bowl and slumps back in utter defeat.

It is hardly any consolation at all when the Indians lose to the Marlins 3-2.

  
 __Ceding the Field Gracefully  
  
It becomes obvious to Fraser over the following weeks that he had completely misinterpreted Ray's apparent obliviousness. This, Fraser decides with weary resignation, is simply Ray's subconscious acting very circumspectly to let Fraser down in the gentlest way possible. Ray's conscious mind can then remain incognizant and thus preserve both Fraser's pride and the friendship between them.

It's for the best, really.

He tells himself this over and over, and is only partially successful. Their partnership becomes slightly...adversarial as a result.

And then, in a heartbeat, it becomes physically combative, and Fraser realizes he has greatly overestimated Ray's patience and his own ability to cede the point with any grace whatsoever. His Depot decorum instructor would be truly appalled.

Especially when he gives in to Ray's wishes and clocks him back a good one.

The days that follow are too turbulent and adrenaline-filled to allow time for any deep contemplation. After they dispatch the evildoers and sail back to Sault Ste. Marie, by mutual consent they take refuge in a Travelodge near the highway for some much-needed sleep before returning to Chicago.

They are without almost any gear whatsoever. Ray digs up a spare pair of jeans and a T-shirt from his trunk. Fraser has the hunting knife he borrowed from one of the young Mountie sailors, and after Ray has taken his shower, Fraser strips off his borrowed tunic and works up a lather with the cheap motel soap in order to shave.

He is drawing the blade down his cheek when in the mirror he sees Ray standing just outside the open bathroom doorway.

The expression on Ray's face is positively peculiar.

Fraser raises his eyebrows. Ray's eyes skitter away only to return a moment later. Fraser takes another careful stroke with the hunting knife. The edge is perfect; really, it will be a hardship to return it.

Ray's voice comes suddenly close by his shoulder, and Fraser almost slits his own throat.

"That's really...um. You're...something else, you know that?"

"It's not much different from using a straight razor," Fraser says. "Did you want to try?"

"Hell, no, I'm not crazy. You couldn't have waited until we got back?"

Fraser has to delay his response until he can complete the delicate navigation of his upper lip.

"Believe me, Ray. You wouldn't want to see me with a partial beard." He meets Ray's eyes in the mirror with a rueful look, but the curious gleam there makes his smile falter.

Ray looks away. "You almost done? We need to get some food. And talk."

"Yes, of course." There is no excuse for what happens next—a slight nervousness has stricken him, perhaps affecting his grip on the knife—but he nicks himself on the final sweep, just above his jaw.

Ray mutters a curse and hands him a towel, but Fraser reaches for the toilet paper and uses it instead to blot the thin stream of blood.

"See? I told you you were nutso. Completely off the cradle, Fraser."

"Perhaps you are right at that," Fraser mumbles. He presses hard for a long moment before checking the damage. The tissue tries to stay in the cut, and he ends up using the towel anyway with an internal apology to Housekeeping.

Ray disappears, and Fraser hears him on the phone, perhaps with room service. He hasn't asked Fraser what he wants, but then he knows everything Fraser would like.

Well, almost everything.

Fraser rinses the remaining soap from his face and cleans up the bathroom sink. He folds the towel around the bloody splotch and leaves it on the back of the toilet. When he goes back into the room, Ray is bouncing back and forth in the small space, from the window to one of the beds and back again.

"Kitchen is closed," Ray says, "which is good, because that way there's no distractions." He stops in front of Fraser and tilts his head, his hands on his hips.

"From what, Ray?" Fraser feels the same high hum of his nerves as from before their recent adventure began. He'd thought they'd worked everything out on the ship, and later in the submarine, but Ray's fierce frown speaks otherwise.

"I got a question." The neckline of Ray's T-shirt has sagged from repeated washings, and looks so soft along his collarbone. "You listening? Pay attention."

"I'm listening." Fraser's nervousness rises another notch.

"So, what I need to know is this, and it's a simple question, so do not give me the Mountie run-around, you get me, Fraser? I'm looking for a straight answer." Ray jabs his fingers at Fraser's chest.

Fraser takes a step back and crosses his arms, choosing to respond with a simple nod.

"That thing—you know, that thing you did on the boat, the buddy breathing thing..." Ray stops again and looks a little lost. "It was...more than that, wasn't it?"

Fraser's head reels a little. That moment—God, he remembers that moment, when his hands were on Ray's cheeks, his lips on Ray's lips, and how bitter the taste in his mouth. Lake water, cold and faintly fishy. A mere practicality of imparting air to his partner. As close as he was ever likely to get, and relished not at all as a result.

"No, Ray. You're wrong about that. It's as I said—"

"Do not _do_ this, Fraser. Do not tell me that."

"It was buddy breathing." Fraser's voice is firm.

"It was _not,_ you big liar _._ " Ray looks incensed.

Fraser struggles to contain his anger. How ironic that when the furthest thing from his mind was initiating any real intimate contact, Ray is interpreting it so. "It was _buddy breathing_ , Ray. Nothing more, nothing less—"

"I can't believe you." Ray jitters away and then bounces against the edge of the bed like a pinball. "I can't believe you'd freakin' lie to me. That wasn't any partner-helping-partner thing. That was your _mouth_. That was _my_ mouth—" Ray yanks at his hair. "That was a—"

"I assure you, it was _not_ , Ray," Fraser says heatedly. His temper boils over. "Do you honestly think I would take advantage of you being helpless to force my attentions on you? When you had already made perfectly clear those attentions weren't in any way welcome?"

"When you—what?" Ray freezes, his face going slack.

"I'm not a fool, Ray. And far be it from me to foist myself upon an unwilling partner—"

"What the _fuck_ are you talking about?"

"Oh, who's playing pretend now?" Fraser's fury has transmuted into an unholy glee at having this out at last. "After all those advances I made toward you? Do you still mean to claim you had no idea what I was up to all that time?"

Ray is shaking his head, his eyes wide.

"My state of undress! The...playing of footsie! I—I bought you _pie_. For crying out loud, Ray, I touched your _inner thigh_!"

Frase has advanced and says this last with his chest a foot away from Ray's. His vehement words cause the hair on Ray's forehead to breeze back.

Ray's shell-shocked expression suddenly transforms, his lips lifting, his eyes squinting...he's smiling. No, not just smiling—this is a dimple-creasing, full-blown grin.

Fraser takes an involuntary step backward.

Ray's eyes narrow slightly, but his mouth is still grinning. "Let me get this straight," he says softly. "All of that stuff was your idea of _flirting_?"

"I—"

"'Cause, I mean. Oh, man. Mountie flirting." Ray snickers.

The blood drains from Fraser's face, leaving him cold.

"Hey! Come back here!" Ray pursues him to where Fraser has retreated to the corner of the room. "Turn around, Fraser."

"No." A mulish, childish refusal.

"Come on, don't get like that. I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. You took me by surprise is all."

"I'm sorry if my attempts at flirtation didn't meet your exacting standards," Fraser mutters.

Warm hands suddenly rest on his shoulders. He resists the pull, but they turn him in place until he is once again facing Ray. Ray, whose eyes are now glinting with warmth.

"You want me to show you how I flirt, Frase?"

Fraser's heart hammers quickly, a thud that shakes his chest. "Y-yes."

Ray licks his lips, and Fraser finds himself echoing the gesture. And then Ray is leaning in close, pulling Fraser toward him. Their wet lips meet in a fumbling slide, and then, dear God, Ray is kissing him.

Ray is kissing him.

It takes a moment for Fraser to respond with action. He brings his arms up to enfold Ray, to pull him closer, and when Ray's tongue flirts with the seam between his lips, Fraser opens his mouth and takes him in. And then he is tasting Ray, the cheap motel toothpaste, the salt of Ray's skin around his mouth. Ray's lips move to Fraser's jaw and then his temple before Ray's forehead drops to Fraser's shoulder.

Ray hugs him tight within the circle of his arms. Tighter than Fraser has ever been held. Stars burst behind his vision, and he realizes he is squeezing his eyes shut hard, trying to hold back—

"Jesus Christ," Ray says shakily, his voice muffled by Fraser's undershirt.

Fraser can only nod in agreement.

"What a couple of idiots, huh?"

The words release the last of the humiliation that had been hanging in the back of his throat. Maybe it wasn't only his fault his feeble efforts hadn't met with success.

"Why didn't you just _say_ something?" Ray asks, as if he's reading Fraser's mind.

"It's not—" Fraser clears his throat, "—not my way."

"No, I guess not. Still..." Ray pulls back and butts his forehead against Fraser's. "It's mine. I just...gave up on this maybe two days after I met you. Wouldn't let myself even _look_. Stupid."

"You're not stupid," Fraser says fiercely, giving Ray a little shake.

Ray tilts his head and grins. "So, I'm wising up. And since I'm no good at the subtle stuff, I'll tell you right now, Fraser—I want to take you to bed." Ray's voice goes strange and thin. "And just so we're clear, I'm not gonna want to let you out of it again for a long time. Like maybe years."

Fraser swallows and smiles.

"Say something." It's Ray's turn to shake him.

"Acknowledged, Ray," Fraser says in a ridiculously husky voice. Ray grins, relief squinting his eyes, and then he kisses Fraser and is turning him around in a spiral with his bed as the center. They fall in tandem, and Fraser promptly slips off the edge and lands on the floor with a thud.

He hears a muted snort from above.

Fine. Two can play this game. Fraser lifts himself and vaults over the side to pin Ray down to the floral bedspread. Ray breathes out in a startled gasp and Fraser takes the brief hesitation as an opportunity to yank Ray's T-shirt up and over his head so his arms are trapped next to his ears.

And then Fraser assaults the delicious, smooth skin of Ray's chest with teeth and tongue and sucking lips. Ray makes disbelieving sounds that change to agreeable whimpers, Fraser's name mixed in among the moans.

Fraser discovers a few things—that Ray's nipples are incredibly sensitive, but he nonetheless enjoys the delicate application of teeth; that the skin of Ray's ribs tastes slightly different from the slight musk emanating from just above the waist of his jeans; that Ray isn't wearing any underwear, which Fraser learns when he pops open Ray's pants and unzips him carefully to free his erection. The head springs up to greet Fraser's waiting lips, and Ray lets out a hoarse shout that rings in Fraser's ears as he pulls the sweet weight of him into his mouth.

And then Ray is almost silent but for some strained whimpers as Fraser sucks and sucks, working the shaft with his thumb and fingers. He falls into a sensual pleasure-haze of taste and smell and the texture of Ray moving within his mouth, against his tongue.

After a while, Ray starts struggling, thighs flexing beneath Fraser's arm. Fraser pulls away and asks, "What do you need?"

"P-put—" Ray stops and pushes his jeans down. Fraser releases him long enough to assist, and then Ray continues in a raw whisper, "Put your fingers in me."

He spreads his legs, and Fraser has to hold his breath and think dampening thoughts—polar bears and ice fields, Dief's breath after eating tuna—in order to forestall a premature climax in his pants. He sucks on his own fingers, eyes on Ray's, which are bleeding blue electricity, and then lowers his head to take Ray once again into his mouth, letting his slick fingers tease along Ray's perineum and lower, to the small, tight furl that blossoms beneath his fingertips. He slips two fingers just inside, and Ray groans and jerks, his cock shuddering in Fraser's mouth and filling it with slippery warmth.

It is exalting, to feel and hear Ray this undone, his muscles fluttering around Fraser's fingers, his moans filling the small room. His semen filling Fraser's mouth.

As Ray sinks back onto the mattress, Fraser swallows and then cleans him gently with his tongue. He feels a little dizzy crawling up to join Ray on the pillow. The unreality of the situation hits him hard when he meets Ray's heavy-lidded gaze, and Fraser plants a quick kiss on Ray's lips before rolling off the bed and going to the bathroom to clean up.

"Hey, where're you going?" Ray sounds cranky, which hardly seems believable. After all, Fraser is the one with stiffness still chafing against the wool of his pants. His groin feels full and heavy as he washes his hands.

"I'm just—I'll be right there."

Fraser stares into the mirror. His hair is atrocious, sticking up where Ray had clutched at his head in excitement. His lips are swollen and damp. He looks...sinful. Yes, he looks precisely as if he has sinned, which explains the odd smirk.

"Fraser, get in here," Ray complains.

Fraser steps back out. Ray is sitting up against the headboard, and he waves with one limp arm. "Get out of those clothes, huh?"

Fraser hugs his arms to hunch out of his braces, then lowers his head and unfastens his pants, feeling suddenly and unaccountably shy.

"I remember the last time I saw you do that." Ray's husky voice lifts Fraser's head. Ray appears to be consuming him with his eyes. "Was that what you were—? Oh, man, I'm so dumb. D-U-M dumb."

Fraser shakes his head and drops his trousers, easing them off over his bare feet. Reaching back over his head he pulls off his shirt as he approaches the bed. And Ray.

"You're anything but," Fraser says softly as he sits on the bed. "It's my fault for—"

But Ray has lost what little patience he had, apparently, because he shuts Fraser's up with a fervid kiss, and then pushes him back against the scratchy bedspread. As his mouth teases wetly at Fraser's nipples, it occurs to Fraser _he_ was the blind one, the stupid one, because there is no disguising Ray's desire. It shouts from every kiss, every bite, shouts of want and lust and hunger.

And just before Fraser climaxes into the warm suction of Ray's throat and loses all coherent thought, he makes a firm resolution to be a little more obvious in future.

  
 __  
Epilogue: Two Points for Effort  
  


Ray is already gone by the time Fraser wakes up the next morning. He has no idea where. Ray had exerted himself to collapse into the other bed before they fell asleep—the beds were too narrow for two—so Fraser wasn't disturbed when Ray apparently woke up and left.

Now, of course, he is disturbed, deeply disturbed. Where has the man gone off to?

Fraser barely has time to panic—imagining walking back to Chicago while berating himself the entire way for his lack of control—before Ray blows in holding a newspaper under one arm and juggling two cups of steaming hot coffee in his hands.

"Hey," he says, his back turned as he places the items on their poor excuse for a table.

"Hey," Fraser echoes, uncertain where they stand. He wishes Ray hadn't left without saying anything. He wishes he knew whether Ray had any regrets.

He wishes Ray would come back to bed and kiss him, over and over, until the coffee grew cold and their lips were raw.

But he says nothing, the words stuck in the usual place—the space between his chest and his throat where he stores all the lost confessions and empty hopes.

Ray turns, and something in his eyes is different. There is an openness there Fraser has never seen in his hard-edged partner. And somehow Fraser thinks he can perhaps try.

"You look...tired, Ray—"

"Oh, great. There's a compliment for ya," Ray snaps before he can finish.

"No, what I mean to say is...you look like you really could use more...rest."

There's a sharp moment of silence. Ray tilts his head.

"Ohhh." He walks toward Fraser, hips moving as if on oiled hinges. "I get it. This is more of that flirting I've been hearing about."

"A suggestion," Fraser equivocates.

"Flirting," Ray says insistently while stripping off his jeans.

"A mere hint."

Ray yanks off his T-shirt and touches himself, spreading his hands over his ribs, sweeping them up over his nipples.

"Flirting," Fraser agrees hoarsely.

Ray grins in triumph. And then he pounces.

  
__  
Addendum   


Actually, the coffee tastes quite good cold.

.....................  
2008.02.04

**Author's Note:**

> [This was supposed to be _short_ and _fun_ and instead it turned all long and schmoopy on me, so I apologize.]
> 
>  


End file.
